


The Permanent Decision

by thelookyouredoingthelookagain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After Sherlock's fall, Angst, Cemetery, Desperation, Drug Use, Finding What Was Lost, Grief, Guilt, M/M, Sadness, Sherlock returns, Suicide, new life, serious angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 03:55:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4124733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelookyouredoingthelookagain/pseuds/thelookyouredoingthelookagain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a year since Sherlock's fall and John cannot go on. If Mycroft could help end Sherlock's troubles, surely he could do the same for John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John's Decision

**Author's Note:**

> All works here were produced by two friends in the fandom. One writes as SH and one as John, and we edit together. Our characters are based on the BBC's _Sherlock_ , though we don't mind playing a little loosely with canon and the occasional AU. We have whims and like to follow them. While we like to torture our boys with constant misunderstandings, we know they belong together and we always see to that.
> 
> All posted works are complete, and we hope there will be something for everyone. Please take a look at our other works. Just a note, though, there's pretty much always going to be smut. Sometimes fluff, sometimes angst, but always smut. We can't help it: that's just the way we are.
> 
> We plan to add new work each weekend, so please subscribe.
> 
> We also really appreciate the kudos and comments. They mean a lot -- sometimes they inspire new ideas and works, sometimes they just make us feel all warm inside.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

John was sitting in his armchair and gazing at Sherlock's chair, listening to the soft sounds of Greg sleeping on the sofa. John turned his head reluctantly and looked over at him. He knew Greg cared, but people just didn't understand John's continued sadness. He could tell when they looked at him that they didn't understand. It had been over a year since Sherlock had gone and, according to them, John should be moving on by now. It was awful and it was hard, but, for them, it was a long time ago now. In their eyes John used to see sympathy but now there was only pity. He couldn't go back to work without seeing Sherlock falling. He couldn't sleep without seeing Sherlock bleeding. That was how John had ended up on the roof of Bart's himself, staring down at the pavement. 

And that was how Greg ended up in the flat. They were watching him so he didn't pull something like that again. But they didn't know -- no one realised that this was how John was. He had been thinking about it after the army when he felt alone and useless, and Sherlock had saved him. Didn't anyone understand that? Sherlock had saved John and now . . . now he'd left him all alone again with nightmares and death and nothing else to think about. John gripped the chair and closed his eyes, feeling the tears well up and spill onto his cheeks. He couldn't change, he couldn't move on.

And yet he couldn't go through with it. 

Every time John picked up his gun, even when he had stepped up onto the roof, he couldn't go through with it. A small part of his brain, a miniscule bit, still didn't believe that Sherlock was really gone and that part was what stopped John. But he couldn't keep doing this. He was hardly eating, he wasn't sleeping, and now he was being babysat like a child by friends who just felt sorry for him. He wanted to crawl into a hole and just . . . disappear. He looked over at Greg again and stood up suddenly, moving for the door. He was putting his coat on when he heard Greg waking up.

"John?" Greg called once he'd spotted him at the door. "Where are we going?"

 _We._ John almost hit him. " _I_ am going to visit Sherlock and I am going alone."

"John, I can't --"

"I'm going alone!" John said angrily. "I just . . . I just a few minutes alone," he added a little more calmly.

Greg watched him for a moment, his eyes filled with the pity that made John sick. "Okay."

John turned and left the flat, walking angrily. He pulled out his phone and found Mycroft's number. John still blamed him -- he felt like he always would -- but Mycroft was the only one that had the power to do what John needed. John needed to get away. To just get away from everyone and everything, and Mycroft was the only one that could help him now. 

_I need your help. -JW_

Mycroft looked at his phone. It'd been a few months since he'd heard from John Watson, and most of those contacts were essentially abusive -- blaming, accusing, almost figuring the whole thing out. Mycroft had been glad when those stopped. An ask for help, though, was different. Or might be different. He could have easily ignored it, but he had promised Sherlock to help John when he could. He'd have to find out if this request fit into that category.

_And what can I do for you, Doctor Watson? MH_

He read through Sherlock's last report as he waited for John's reply.

_I want to disappear. -JW_

John stared at the words. He had almost sent that he wanted to die, but that wasn't entirely true.

Mycroft was also staring at the words. This did not sound good.

_Disappearing is quite a complicated process. Perhaps a week's holiday would do the trick? MH_

He sent it despite knowing that it was useless suggestion.

_No. Not a holiday. For good. -JW_

Before Mycroft could reply, another message came through.

_I tried to follow Sherlock but I couldn't. -JW_

_Sherlock's behaviour was reckless, John. You know that. MH_

_I know it was. -JW_

Mycroft thought about his promise to Sherlock. He knew Sherlock would want him to tell John the truth now -- he'd argue that John had suffered long enough. If he knew that John was suffering. Which he didn't because Mycroft had told Sherlock nothing about John's reaction. His brother's ignorance and confusion about the emotional repercussions of his choices had made it easier to deal with this on Sherlock's end. Mycroft had kept Sherlock ignorant and focused on his work. John, however, was not so simple. John could not know about Sherlock until Moriarty's network was taken care of and it was not yet taken care of. His knowing the truth would jeopardize everything. John could not be told anything about Sherlock. And Sherlock could not be told anything about John. This is something that Mycroft would have to sort on his own.

_We need to speak in person. MH_

_I'm going to see him now. Come meet me. -JW_

Mycroft closed Sherlock's correspondence and arranged for a car.

_I'll be there momentarily. MH_

John put his phone into his pocket and moved towards the gravestone, his chest tightening as he did. Even after all of this time it was hard. "I'm going away," he said softly. "I won't be able to visit you anymore but . . . but I will always think about you. Always." He reached out and touched the stone before sitting down in front of it to wait for Mycroft. 

Mycroft walked towards the grave. He didn't want to have to deal with this; he had too many other things he had to deal with. At the same time, though, he couldn't help but feel something -- he knew John experienced pain in ways the Holmes family had been able to turn off and he could see it in John's body and, when he turned around, his face.

"Doctor Watson," he said as he approached.

John stood and looked over at Mycroft, trying to control the anger he still felt for him. "Will you help me?"

"Yes," Mycroft said. He turned and walked over to a nearby bench.

John touched the stone again before following him and sitting beside him. "How can we do this?"

"I need to know precisely what you want," Mycroft said. "To be sent away for a while . . . with a possibility of a later return? I could find you work up north." He swallowed. "Or are you looking for something more permanent?"

John looked at the gravestone, his eyes burning. He wished he had the courage for the most permanent thing. "Permanent," he said softly, imagining the looks people gave him. He just wanted to go away from it all.

Mycroft said, "I understand you're upset . . . but permanent will greatly affect others, as well you know. Are you sure?"

John nodded. He thought of Mrs Hudson and Greg, and his chest hurt even more. But Sherlock was the only one that mattered. And Sherlock was gone.

Mycroft thought carefully. Everyone had to believe Sherlock's death -- that was crucial to national security. But this was different. He looked over at John who just seemed so . . . desperate. He needed this, Mycroft could see that.

"So you'd like me to kill you?" he finally asked John.

The tears spilled out more as John nodded. "Yes, please," he murmured.

"All right," Mycroft said softly. "You'll need to get me your resume, your NI number, your passport, a list of places you've lived and any places you refuse to live. Do you want to stay in Britain?" he asked, his voice a bit more formal.

"It doesn't matter," John said. "I can get you the stuff you need. How will . . . do we need a body?"

"I'll take care of those details, John," Mycroft said, stranding up. "You just need to get me that information. Other than that, all you need to do is prepare to be dead. I'll be in touch in a few days . . . by then there will be no going back." He started to walk off.

"He's gone?" John asked, standing up as well. He just couldn't make that little bit of his brain accept it. "He's gone for real?"

Mycroft turned and looked at him and then at the gravestone. "You can read, can't you?" he asked. He took a step back closer towards John. "You need to be sure, John. Can you think of anything I could do to change your mind?"

"Bring him back right now," John said simply.

"I can't do that, John," Mycroft said. He looked him in the eye. "Are you still sure?"

John sighed softly and nodded. "I'm sure."

"Get me that info," Mycroft said. "And I'll be in touch." He gave John one last look and then left.

John went to the gravestone and touched it softly again. "I wish I could come with you properly but I can't. I just have to go away. It's all too difficult and I miss you too much . . ." John wiped his face hard and turned to leave, hurrying back to the flat. Greg was sleeping again and John crept into Sherlock's room for the rest of the night. He didn't sleep. In the morning he found all of the things Mycroft needed before going down to have tea with Mrs Hudson. He felt nervous and scared but not more than he missed Sherlock.

After delivering everything to Mycroft he went back to the flat, packed a bag, and then curled into Sherlock's chair to wait for instructions.


	2. Christopher Is Born

Mycroft was good to his word. John told everyone he was leaving for a few days away. He left with what he'd needed. Mycroft took care of the rest.

And suddenly John Watson no longer existed.

But Dr Christopher Sower did. He took a position in a small surgery in West Yorkshire. He had a nice little flat. He had a small garden. He had a new life.

John was glad that he hadn't been around to actually see the aftereffects of it all. A gunshot to the head with John's own gun meant the slight differences in the corpse's face were irrelevant. He tried to settle into his new life, but when work was slow, he would ache with guilt. He often had nightmares and woke up sobbing. He missed Sherlock but now he missed them as well. He had known he would, and he didn't regret his decision, but he also knew they had tried so very hard to reach out to him and he hadn't let them. He thought about what it felt like begging Sherlock to come down from the roof and watching him fall anyway. Was that how they felt now? Or did they silently think it was for the best? Did they think that John was at peace now? Was he?

It was occasionally strangely therapeutic living as a brand new person. When he went into work, he was Christopher Sower, an ordinary man with an ordinary life. There were no criminals and there were no body parts and there were no cases. It was easy. But he also hated it, well, most days he hated it. It was boring and slow. But when people looked at him, they smiled and their eyes didn't pity him, and that felt good. He was free to suffer alone and not be judged.  

__________________________________________________________________

 

In London, Mycroft Holmes was now looking after two dead people. Sherlock continued his work on Moriarty's network, which was bigger than expected. And John Watson was now living a boring life, which, Mycroft thought, would, in the world's greatest trick of irony, probably bore him to death. Dealing with the dead was somewhat tedious, though gave Mycroft a sense of power he did somewhat enjoy.

He hadn't, of course, enjoyed breaking the news. Which is why, unlike with Sherlock, John's death was a much smaller affair -- he didn't even bother contacting John's family. Obviously, Molly and Lestrade were suspicious and Mycroft didn't really invest the energy in trying to convince them, they could believe whatever they wanted as far as he was concerned. He had felt discomfort with Mrs Hudson's sadness though, a feeling he had not liked in the slightest. He now found himself sending her flowers each month -- he wasn't quite sure how that had happened . . . maybe it was Anthea's idea? Regardless, Mycroft knew Mrs Hudson was an important person to both John and Sherlock, and a standing flower order was a minor detail.

Sherlock knew nothing. His correspondence only focused on their work -- it was safest that way. Behind the words was the assumption that Mycroft would look after John, as Sherlock made him promise to do before his fall. Mycroft felt he'd kept that promise. He'd given John what he needed, what he asked for. He'd taken care of John.

__________________________________________________________________

 

The first couple months of John's new life passed in a blur of nightmares, sadness, and confusion. No one here knew him well enough to see it on his face when he went to work, but in his flat he was free to be as sad and miserable as he wanted. He stayed up for as long as he could, almost three days sometimes, trying to exhaust his brain into being quiet enough to sleep. It didn't always work. He spent a lot of this time barely functioning, using the little energy he had to fake it at work so no one asked too many questions. He was slowly settling into this being his life now. He was trying to accept that this was going to be it forever.  

But John, despite his sadness, was a survivor. A fighter. At some point he started eating a proper dinner after work. John might not have much of an appetite, but he tricked himself by pretending that Chris did. Chris needed food to survive. He knew it was silly, but it started to work. When he went to bed at night, he reminded himself that Chris needed sleep. And so John slept through the night. He still had nightmares, but he was sleeping every night and he knew that it was a start. 

Mycroft checked in once in a while, only to make sure John was keeping up his identity and hadn't slipped up at all. He never offered any information on how everyone at home was doing, and for now John didn't ask. He was still feeling guilty, and he missed them so much that he couldn't bear to hear about them just yet. He needed to get himself fully and properly sorted first. 

__________________________________________________________________

 

Eventually Mycroft felt that things were finally settled. He had eyes on Mrs Hudson and had begun to feel he could trust that John Watson was Christopher Sower. He could focus on his other business now. Things were normal in the first time in over a year.

Of course, normal is a subjective term. Mycroft Holmes's business was never normal. There were many things going on -- some of which were worrying. Those were the things that needed his attention now.


	3. Christopher Comes To Life

John continued to settle into his new life. The nightmares lessened, he was eating regularly, and he had agreed to meet up for drinks with one of the doctors from work. He'd been asking since John moved to town. He was friendly enough and clearly just wanted to make John feel welcome. Finally, John felt up to actually accepting. So when they were finished with the day, John left with him and they walked to a nearby pub. 

"I'm glad you decided to come out," Jason said. "It was turning into a real challenge."

John smiled lightly.

"You're very reserved," he said, and the way it trailed off, John knew it was a question as well but he only sipped at his drink and didn't say anything about it. Jason nodded and took a long drink. He changed the subject to work and schooling, and John was careful not to mention anything about the army or his training there. That wasn't who he was anymore. Or rather, that wasn't who Christopher Sower was, and it was very important that John was Christopher. As the night wore on, Jason changed the conversation to dating. 

John shook his head and laughed softly. "I'm not really looking for anything like that right now," he said. 

"Ah. So a bad break up brought you here," Jason said. 

John swallowed hard. "I lost someone . . ." He couldn't even finish the sentence. It was still too hard. 

"I'm sorry," Jason mumbled. "Well, I have a friend that I think you'll like -- I mean, when you're ready."

John bit his lip and shook his head. "Not yet," he said softly.

"No, right. Of course." Jason swallowed awkwardly and changed the subject back to the patients and the wild things they had seen, trying to make John laugh again. When they were finished, they went their separate ways. As he walked home John decided that it hadn't been so bad. Perhaps he would agree to go out again soon.

__________________________________________________________________

 

Mycroft sat in his parents' kitchen, doing his best to ignore the words coming out of his mother's mouth. She was going on about needing Sherlock back -- there was some family reunion being planned. Mycroft had already explained everything -- the work, the danger -- but she just kept talking. Finally he heard her say, "And let's invite John Watson as well."

He took a sip of tea. "I'm afraid John's not able to come," he said, hoping that'd be enough but knowing it wouldn't be.

"Why?" she asked before adding, "Please tell me he knows the truth . . ."

"No one knows the truth," Mycroft said as if saying it made it so. "It's too dangerous. John had struggled, long before he met Sherlock, Mother. He was . . . unable to cope."

"What are you saying, Mycroft?"

"John killed himself a few months ago," he said. He took another sip of tea.

His mother sat down at the table and looked closely at Mycroft, who was not looking at her. "Well, bring them both back," she said.

Mycroft exhaled. "What makes you think I can bring people back from the dead?" he said, almost laughing before realising the irony. "Suicide is a permanent choice . . . in most cases. John made his choice."

"Mycroft," she scolded. "How did you become this person?" She sat for a moment. "Does . . . Sherlock know?"

"He knows what he needs to know and at the moment he doesn't need to know about John's death or this ridiculous party," he said. Before she could interrupt, he added, "He'll return when it's time to return. Everyone knew that from the beginning -- well, rather, that was the agreement." He stood up. "Don't fuss. You know I'll always look after him."

"You should've looked after John as well," she said, not quite sure what to think about any of this.

"I did look after John," he said and then he got his coat to leave.

__________________________________________________________________

 

Over the next few months John found it easier to go out with Jason and even a few of the other doctors. He felt guilty for having shut out his own friends when they were trying to help, and for letting these new ones easily do what Greg had tried to do for months. But then he reminded himself that this was very different from what Greg had been trying to do. Greg had wanted to take John out and distract him from the pain. Distract him from the fact that Sherlock was gone. That was impossible. John could never forget or ignore the fact that Sherlock was not in his life anymore. 

This situation made things a little bit easier. John had eventually told Jason a half lie. John said that his brother had died in an accident and that was why he had to move away. It had always been the two of them and now without his brother, he had been lost. Jason let John tell stories about Sherlock, whom he never actually mentioned by name. And in John's story, he was just a chemist working in a lab. He sometimes smiled at what Sherlock would say if he knew he was being reduced to something so boring and simple. Jason didn't look at John with pity when he told his stories. Usually he just ordered another round and toasted Sherlock's memory with John. Hadn't his friends at home seen that talking about him -- remembering him -- would actually be helpful? Why did they find it so easy to brush it off and move on with their lives? Maybe that would've been healthier, but it wasn't right or possible to brush off someone who was so important. These people had known Sherlock long before John did. He didn't understand, but he was grateful that with Jason he could remember, even if the details had to be changed a bit.

One night, when it was getting very close to Christmas, Jason took John out to one of his favourite little pubs. Jason had said 'a few people' were going to meet them there, but when they arrived it was just two women. John paused and looked over at Jason, raising his brows. 

"I know," Jason said quickly. "But you've been here for six months now. I know that you were really broken up when you first got here, but you deserve to be happy, too. I'm not saying you have to get married. Just meet her."

John sighed. Really he had no choice at this point. It wasn't like they could just walk out of the pub and leave them sitting there. So he put on a smile, and he met Susan and Mary. Susan immediately pulled Jason up to the bar, and Mary scooted a bit closer to John. She was very pretty and actually quite easy to talk to. She was a nurse at a different office, smart and funny . . . it was hard to have a bad time. John grudgingly started to relax and as they kept drinking, he even started flirting back a bit. By the end of the night they were exchanging numbers and making plans for their own date. John ignored the smug look on Jason's face as he tried to hail a cab. 

"Your brother would want you to be happy, John." 

John nodded as he got into the car, and suddenly he was laughing as tears spilled out from his eyes. Sherlock would have been anything but happy to see him going on a date, and John would have given anything just then for a text pointing out her every flaw. 

__________________________________________________________________

 

 _It's time_.

Mycroft stared at the message. Sherlock was right. It was time for him to come home. Moriarty's network had been destroyed. And Mycroft had work for Sherlock here.

_Will arrange._

Mycroft sent the message and began working. He arranged for a flight home. Sherlock could stay with Mycroft until he was settled in or surely their mother would keep him for a while. Mycroft smiled at that. Within the hour, all was arranged. Sherlock Holmes was coming back to life.


	4. Sherlock Returns

The day of his brother's return, Mycroft unlocked the safe in his office and removed the case he had stored for him. He took a car to the airport and watched from the backseat for Sherlock to arrive. When he saw him, he looked thinner, a bit ragged really. But it was Sherlock. Sherlock was home.

Sherlock got into the car. He wasn't quite sure what to say so he said, "I'm back."  
  
"So I see," Mycroft said. "You need a haircut."  
  
"I need a bath," Sherlock said. He stared out the window as they drove. He was glad to be back. But he didn't yet feel at home. He knew the car was taking them to Mycroft's flat. That was fine. When they arrived, Mycroft led them in. He handed the case to Sherlock who handed him his bag in return.  
  
"Shall I just have this burned?" Mycroft asked dismissively.

"Have it cleaned first," Sherlock said. "Then I'll decide what needs to be destroyed."

He turned and took his case into the bathroom with him. He turned on the bath and opened the case. He knew Mycroft had probably looked through it, but he also knew that nothing he'd put inside would be missing. He fingered each item, remembering what it meant to him. He started to feel more relaxed. He slid into the hot water and rested.

When he appeared again, Mycroft had poured him a drink. "I'm wearing your dressing gown," Sherlock said, picking up the glass.

"I see that," Mycroft said. "There are clothes for you in your room."  
  
"I don't have a room here," Sherlock said. "But I do need clothes -- at least something to wear home."  
  
"Home as in . . .?" Mycroft asked, swirling the liquid in his own glass.

Sherlock pulled a face. "The flat. Baker Street. My home," he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"We can talk about that tomorrow," Mycroft said, turning his attention to his phone while still watching for Sherlock to make a move.

Sherlock did make a move. He stood up. "No thanks," he said. He went into the other room and got dressed. He grabbed his case and moved for his coat.

"Where are you going?" Mycroft called.

"Home," Sherlock said and was out the door.

He took a cab to Baker Street, fiddling with the set of keys that had waited for him inside his case. He didn't see any lights or movement in the windows upstairs so he headed to Mrs Hudson's door. It wasn't until he knocked that he realised he was likely to scare her to death. Luckily, she didn't answer. He used his key to unlock her door. It was clear she was not home. He dug around her desk drawer for paper and an envelope. He put her name on the outside of the envelope and on the paper he wrote:

_I am sitting on your sofa. I did not want to startle you. Come in to see for yourself. Or get John and bring him in with you._

_I've come home, Mrs Hudson._

_Sherlock_

He slipped the note in the envelope and then tacked it to her door. He went back inside, made himself a cup of tea, and sat down on the sofa to wait. He thought about John -- was he still at work? Was he out on a date? He listened for any movement, just in case John came back before Mrs Hudson did. He listened to the sounds of Baker Street. It was good to be home.

He must have fallen asleep waiting because the next thing he heard was a shriek. He sat up to see Mrs Hudson hurrying in, white as a ghost, heading towards him.

"Is it you? Is it you, Sherlock?" she said over and over as he stood to let her embrace him.

He put his arms around her and said, "It's me."

She eventually calmed down a bit as Sherlock led her into the kitchen for more tea. She asked a few questions -- not about where he'd been or why he'd gone, she knew enough to know those answers wouldn't be provided -- but about if he were really back for good. He assured her he was. He tried to be as patient as he could, but finally he could wait no longer. "When's John back?" he asked. "The flat's dark -- is he working late?"

Mrs Hudson looked over at Sherlock. How could he not know? Why hadn't someone told him? "Sherlock," she said quietly but couldn't make the words. She started to cry.

"What?" he asked. "What? What's happened?" He sat down next to her and touched her arm. "What's happened, Mrs Hudson? Where's John?"

"Oh Sherlock," she said, still crying. "John's . . . gone."  
  
"Where?" Sherlock asked. Why would John have moved out? Why wouldn't he have waited for Sherlock? "Where is John?" he said again, trying to keep his voice calm even though nothing within him felt calm.

"John's . . . passed, Sherlock," she finally said. "There was an accident . . . with a gun." She wiped her tears and tried to look up at Sherlock. "He killed himself, Sherlock, I'm sorry . . ."  
  
"No," Sherlock said, standing up. "No, he didn't." He backed away from her and ran through her place, out the door and up the stairs. He pushed into the flat and looked around. It was their flat -- many of their things were still there, dark and dusty -- but it was cold. Dead.

He flew back down the stairs, passing Mrs Hudson who was standing at the stairs calling him. He got back to Mycroft's as fast as he could, banging on the door. Mycroft opened it. Sherlock pushed him, pushed him right against the wall and screamed "Where is John?" into his face.

Mycroft took a deep breath. "Take a deep breath, Sherlock," he instructed. He glanced towards the sofa. "There's a drink for you over there," he said. "Go sit down and drink it."  
  
Sherlock stood still for a moment. The blood moved through his veins at a million miles an hour and every one of his muscles was tensed and hard. He took a deep breath. He let Mycroft go and moved to the sofa. He lifted the glass to his mouth and drank the entire thing. He lay down on the sofa. "How long will it take?" he said.

"Fifteen minutes at most," Mycroft said. "Close your eyes. We'll talk tomorrow."

Sherlock closed his eyes. He wanted to see John. That's all he wanted. And then he was asleep.


	5. The Truth

When Sherlock opened his eyes again, he remembered. He turned his head and Mycroft was sitting on the chair opposite him. "Is John dead?" he asked.

"Sherlock, two years is a long time," Mycroft said. "Did you really think he'd stay sitting in that flat? He believed you'd died. He watched it with his own eyes."

"Is he dead?" Sherlock repeated.

"He had to go on, he had to live, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "But he . . . couldn't." So far, nothing Mycroft had said was untrue. He'd been thinking about this for months and was choosing his words carefully.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said. He was staring up at the ceiling. "Please . . . "  
  
"John Watson's gone, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "I'm sorry. He suffered -- more than you and I had expected, I'm afraid, and after what he'd gone through in the war . . . it appears he couldn't take anymore."

"Is that the truth?" Sherlock asked. "Or just the truth you're willing to tell me?"

"It's the truth, Sherlock," Mycroft said and left it at that.

Sherlock sat up and then tried to stand up, but was a bit wobbly on his feet. He went into the other room. He saw a phone and a laptop on the desk. He picked them both up and brought them to the bed.

It was his phone. It had been wiped clean -- his inbox was empty and his contacts were gone. He added John's number and typed a text.

_Where are you?_

A second later the screen lit up.

_Message not sent._

He tried again and the same thing happened. He opened the laptop, which was not his but new. He Googled John's name. Their website came up first, and Sherlock could feel tears welling in his eyes. He added the word suicide to his search. There were a few pages of links to articles about Sherlock's own death and then he saw something else.

It was a link to a newsblotter from a local newspaper in Cornwall about a body being found on the beach. A suspected suicide. Sherlock stared at the words.

_The victim was identified as John H. Watson of London. The death is not being treated as suspicious._

Sherlock let himself cry. He couldn't believe it. He didn't believe it. He couldn't. Was this what John wanted?

He lay down on the bed and sobbed. He'd known what he'd done would hurt John -- of course, he'd known that. But John was strong, he was smart. Hadn't he figured it out? Sherlock tried to think now, tried to remember all the things he'd told himself while he was away to make himself feel better about what had happened. John knew Sherlock's behaviour always made sense, there was always a reason. John understood that about Sherlock. John understood Sherlock like no one in the world ever had. That's what made them what they were -- they understood each other.

Unless . . . those things Sherlock had told himself were just excuses to rid himself of guilt. Maybe John hadn't figured out it was a lie or maybe he had and it hadn't mattered because John didn't know Sherlock would return. The thought of John's pain ripped through Sherlock, and he thought he might be physically sick. He curled into a ball on the bed. There was nothing he could tell himself now to rid himself of guilt. And if John was really gone, he'd never be able to explain, to apologise, to say what needed to be said.

Then the phone buzzed, and he struggled to reach for it.

_Life goes on for the living, Sherlock. You're one of the living now. We have work to do. MH_

Sherlock stared at the words until they blurred on the screen.

_I need another drink._

A few minutes later, Mycroft appeared at the door. "Change into your pajamas," he said and waited for Sherlock to do so. Once he lay back down on the bed, Mycroft sat next to him and said, "Turn over."

As Sherlock shifted, Mycroft pulled lightly on his pajama bottoms, exposing his thin back and buttocks. He injected the drug and then pulled the clothing back up. "This is the last one, Sherlock. Tomorrow I need you back properly. We must put all of this behind us." He could see the tears still on Sherlock's face. He moved the phone and laptop back to the desk, turned off the light and shut the door.

__________________________________________________________________

 

_Please come home. I didn't mean it._

John pulled out his phone and read the message. He stuffed the phone back into his pocket without replying and kept walking. He was making his way around the streets, trying to release some of the anger he was feeling. Things with Mary had been going very well for a while. A month ago she suggested that they move in together and John had agreed. Now that he thought about it, he didn't really know why. Back then it had seemed like the right thing to do, a proper step in the relationship they were building. But John should have known he wasn't ready to live with anyone else. Mary was always noticing little things that were starting to worry her, like John standing with the refrigerator door open for too long, staring into it. One day he actually told her he was expecting to find a head in there, and he could tell that he had scared her. He laughed it off, but things were a bit awkward after that. 

Then there was the day that he got bored at home and, following in Sherlock's footsteps, picked up his gun and shot at the wall a couple times. Mary was furious. She hated that John owned a gun in the first place and didn't understand why he needed it, especially loaded in the flat. John tried to explain that he was bored, but that only made things a lot worse. When Sherlock had shot the walls John had just taken the gun away and that was that. He didn't know why she was so angry. She'd given him the silent treatment for a few days.

By then, he was starting to see that as easy as she had been to talk to when they had just been dating, it was that much harder sharing the same space with her. She always wanted to be talking or going out, but John was never interested. He missed Sherlock's long bouts of silence, and he missed going out to chase criminals. He missed having conversations about impossible murders and whether or not an eyeball could withstand the heat of a hair drier. One day when Mary was doing the shopping, he realised that he just missed being John Watson. When he and Mary had just been going out, he could 'put on the mask' of Christopher Sower and the night would be fine. Having her in the flat with him, though, left him no time to be John Watson and it was exhausting. Never mind the fact the when he was John Watson he felt closer to Sherlock Holmes. Chris, on the other hand, had no idea who Sherlock was and John wasn't ready for that. He'd never be ready for that.

Tonight they had been sitting in the flat -- John was reading, and Mary was trying to convince him to go out to a club. He didn't want to, and she was getting agitated. When John finally agreed, they walked to Mary's favourite place and stood in the queue outside the loud bar. A man ran by and stole a woman's handbag, and without thinking John ran after him, almost catching him before the man pulled out a knife and tried to fight John off. John paused and stepped back, leaving the man free to run off again. By then there was a police officer running towards John and then past him. When John walked back to the queue, Mary was livid, shouting about how reckless John was and how he didn't think about anyone but himself.

She'd stomped off and John followed, but the argument didn't end. It seemed to grow as she unleashed all the things that had been bothering her. She told John that he seemed to have a death wish and she didn't know why he was so eager to join his stupid brother. John saw on her face that as soon as the words came out of her mouth, she regretted them. But John was already walking away from her. She didn't know what she had said -- not really. John very much did have a death wish, and he would have given anything to be with Sherlock again. And it wasn't just that he wanted Sherlock in the world again. He wanted everything. He wanted Sherlock in his flat, and he wanted the experiments on the kitchen table and the body parts in the fridge and his disappearing into his mind palace. He wanted to wake up in the morning and walk into the kitchen and see Sherlock. He wanted to come home from work to find Sherlock on the sofa. He wanted Mary to be Sherlock and that was the whole problem with their relationship. Mary wasn't Sherlock and she never would be. No one would ever be. 

He turned around and headed back home. He needed to end this. The truth was that he was in love with someone else. It wasn't fair to either of them to keep Mary around, to lie to her like this. He needed to break up with Mary and then he needed to tell Sherlock. It didn't matter that he couldn't hear the words. Perhaps if John had said them that day -- he cut the thought off quickly because he couldn't let his mind spiral into what he could have done to stop the fall. Not now. He had his own mess to clean up now.

__________________________________________________________________

 

Sherlock slept for another day. And when he finally woke up, he did his best to do what Mycroft wanted. He couldn't, not really, but he tried. However, he insisted on staying in that room for a few days. Mycroft could bring in files and background, and Sherlock had the computer and his phone. But he needed the comfort and safety of the confined space. At least a little longer.

Eventually he was able to go out. Mycroft was cautious, but let him leave. He went to Baker Street to see Mrs Hudson. She cried when she saw him and then he cried, too. There was a knock at the door and Mrs Hudson got up to answer it. She returned with a bouquet of flowers.

"Those are nice," Sherlock said, wiping his eyes and trying to regain his composure.  
  
"They come once a month," she explained.

"From whom?" he asked.

"To be honest, I'm not sure," she said. "They started just after . . . John." She put them in a vase and set them on the table before sitting down again. "Are you coming back to the flat?" she asked.

"I don't know," he answered honestly.

She reached over and touched his hand. "It's yours, you know. I can't really imagine anyone else there . . . John left me all his money so I'll hold it for you . . . until you're ready."

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them again and said goodbye to Mrs Hudson.

Back at Mycroft's, he lay on the bed thinking. Perhaps John was sending the flowers to Mrs Hudson. That would mean John was alive. But Mrs Hudson had said John left her money -- how could he afford that? That would mean John was . . .

"Stop it," Mycroft interrupted. He was standing at the bedroom door. "You're not ready to leave here if you're still trying to come up with some explanation that ends with John and Sherlock living happily ever after at Baker Street."

Sherlock rolled away from him. "I just want to know . . ." he said.

"No, you don't, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "Remember Redbeard?"

"I'm not a child anymore," Sherlock said.  
  
"Sometimes Sherlock, you are," Mycroft said. "And what helped you then is what will help you now. Believe whatever you need to believe to make it possible to go on."

__________________________________________________________________

 

_I want to visit Sherlock. -JW_

John dropped his phone beside the small bag he was packing and moved around the quiet flat to see if he needed anything else. He knew it was going to be a very short visit so his bag didn't really have much in it. Just enough for one night if it turned out that he needed to sleep somewhere in London. Mary had taken the last of her things a couple days ago. It had been an awful break up. She thought it was all about the comment she had made, and John had tried explaining the best that he could. In the end he knew she'd never properly understand, and that was fair enough. He came back into the room and dropped his toothbrush in, seeing the light blinking on his phone. He picked up the phone and scowled at the message. 

_No. MH_

_Yes. I just need a break. -JW_

_There is no break from permanent. You chose permanent. MH_

_I won't see anyone. Just him. -JW_

Mycroft scoffed at the message. John was so terribly . . . human. What was the point of visiting a grave? This could not happen -- especially not now when Sherlock was still so . . . fragile.

_No. MH_

Then he sent a text to Sherlock.

_You're needed. Return immediately. MH_

John tossed his phone away in anger and zipped up his bag. Mycroft was not going to stop him from visiting Sherlock. A turned up collar and low hat would be just fine, especially if he went to visit at night. He had to tell Sherlock that he loved him. He had to. Everything made so much more sense to John when he realised that not only was he feeling love now, but that he was sure he had been all along. That was why his death had been so much harder on John, and that was why had been having such a hard time moving on. Everyone else . . . their feelings could not even come close to what John felt. If he had realised it sooner, maybe he could have stayed. If he had told someone -- Greg or Molly -- maybe they'd have responded differently. Better. But it was too late and now the only person he cared about telling was Sherlock. 

He found clothes that would help hide him the best and took the train. He fell asleep against the window for a little bit and then tried to read through the rest of the trip. He hadn't received any calls or texts, and John prayed Mycroft wouldn't check up on him. When the train finally arrived John raised his collar and lowered his hat, making his way through the city on foot. He didn't trust getting into any taxis. 

The sight of the familiar city hit him like a sack of bricks. He'd missed it -- missed living here so much that it was hard to breathe properly. But he needed to stay focused. He just needed to get to the grave, say what he needed to say, and then leave before he was seen by anyone. It was still light out, but it wouldn't be for much longer. He kept to side streets as much as he could and took his time, pacing in an alley near the cemetery while he waited for a bit more darkness. 

__________________________________________________________________

 

Sherlock ignored Mycroft's text. He was going to see Mrs Hudson. He was thinking about returning to the flat, properly, to live there again. It wouldn't be the same, he knew that. But being at Mycroft's wasn't helping. There was still a part of him that wondered what else Mycroft knew, but Sherlock was sure he'd never tell. That was one Sherlock could count on. Perhaps if Sherlock could be in the flat again, he could pretend it was the same -- pretend John was just away -- until maybe it didn't hurt so much anymore.

Mrs Hudson greeted him with a hug. There was a new bouquet on her table, but Sherlock didn't mention it. They talked for a while as she made them tea and sandwiches.

"The flat. . ." he finally said but didn't go on.

"Sherlock," she said softly. "There's nothing I'd like more than for you to move back in. But . . . are you sure you're ready? You're still so . . ." She looked at him and could see his heart was still broken and worst yet was that Sherlock Holmes, who could solve any crime in the world, clearly had no concept of how to deal with this grief. "You're so thin," she said instead.

"Well, then you'll have to feed me more," he answered, trying to seem more confident than he was.

"Sherlock," she said as she reached over and touched his hand. "Do you understand he's . . . gone?"  
  
"Yes," Sherlock said, not sure if it were the truth or a lie.

"Maybe if . . . have you said your goodbye? Maybe that would help . . . I know John struggled with . . ." her voice caught and she squeezed his arm. "I'm sorry, Sherlock . . . I shouldn't have said . . . but my god, how he missed you. He felt so guilty -- he couldn't find that peace. Maybe you can."  
  
Sherlock covered his face with his hands, but did his best to stop himself from crying. The regret filled his entire body. "Where . . . where is he?" he asked in a whisper.

"Next to you," she said. "Well, yours. He was buried in the next plot."  
  
Sherlock tried to breathe but it came out in a gasp. Mrs Hudson rubbed his back softly. "You don't have to go, Sherlock, not now -- not ever. Or I could go with you . . . whatever you need. You've got to look after yourself."

Sherlock stayed still for a few moments. He swallowed and looked over at Mrs Hudson. "I'll go on my own," he said. "And then I'll come back to the flat."

When he left, he paused for a moment at the foot of the stairs, remembering. His phone vibrated, and he checked it once he was out on the pavement.

_Urgent. Return at once. MH_

_No. SH_  
  
_Sherlock, come home. MH_

_I am home. SH_

He turned off his phone and slipped it into his pocket. He headed to the cemetery. He made his way through the gates, passing the bench where he'd sat and watched John two years ago. Why hadn't he stood up, gone to him, and told him the truth? He'd give his life to be able to change everything he'd done. He approached the stone with his name and saw John's next to it. The two of them, next to each other, together for eternity. Except Sherlock was alive. He stood there, crying, wishing he could make things right.

When it was darker John lowered his hat even more and crept into the cemetery. Then he heard a sound that made him stop and duck behind the tree. He peeked out slowly and saw the gravestones and then he saw . . . No. No. He was sure that he was hallucinating now. His brain had finally broken from grief, maybe coming back here was the last straw, and now he was actually seeing things. It wasn't possible. A man who looked like Sherlock was crying over his headstone. But it couldn't be Sherlock because he was in the plot next to John. 

_And yet you're standing behind this tree._

The realisation hit John so hard he gasped and fell onto his knees. He couldn't breathe. Mycroft must have done all of this . . . even when John was begging for help to disappear, he never once told John the truth. And watching the man's reactions -- Sherlock's reactions -- Mycroft must not have told him the truth either. John didn't understand. But at the moment he didn't care. Sherlock was alive! He stood up and pulled the hat off and lowered the collar of the jacket. He paused. Instead of running out to embrace him like John wanted, he stepped out slowly. He tried to imagine how he would have wanted Sherlock to reveal himself, but there was no good way. He swallowed hard and tried to take in more air. He still wasn't breathing very well. 

"Sherlock?" he whispered, twisting his hands and trying to stay standing on his shaking legs. 

Sherlock heard the voice saying his name. He knew it was John's voice. Was it real or in his head? "John?" he said aloud. He was afraid to lift his head, afraid to turn and look and find no one.

John swallowed hard again and kept moving closer slowly. "You're alive," he mumbled. Alive. God, he wanted to touch Sherlock so badly. Anything. To hit him for tricking John, to push him for leaving John alone, to shake him for not telling John the truth, to hug him to make sure he was real, and to kiss him for being smart enough to have found a way out of Moriarty's game despite what it caused. 

Sherlock took a step backwards and then slowly turned around. He looked up to where the voice was coming from. It was John. John was alive. He stepped towards him -- to see him, to touch him, to know that it was John Watson. "John," he said and then moved to him, wrapping him in his arms, holding him because he never wanted to let him go.

The contact broke John completely. He started sobbing, his shoulders shaking in Sherlock's embrace and he wrapped his arms around Sherlock so tightly he was sure it probably hurt. He buried his face into Sherlock's neck, breathing him with great gasps as his hands kept moving, clutching different parts of his coat as if needing constant reassurance that he was really here and not going anywhere. It was a long time before he could speak. "I . . . missed you," he cried. 

"I didn't want to be without you," Sherlock said. Tears were pouring from his eyes, falling into John's hair. "I didn't want to then . . . and when I returned, you were gone and I…didn't want to be without you."

John nodded because he understood that. He knew that feeling so well because it had been his constant companion. "I . . . almost . . . but I couldn't," he whispered. He sucked in a deep, shaking breath. "I couldn't do it but I couldn't be without you."

"I wish you'd known . . . I never wanted to make you feel . . . I'm so sorry, John." Sherlock hadn't yet let him go. He wasn't sure he'd ever be able to.

"Why-why didn't . . ." He couldn't even get the question out. So many time he wanted to shout it at Sherlock, so many time he screamed it at Sherlock in his nightmares, he couldn't get it out now. Whatever reason he had for not telling him didn't matter now. "How long have you been here? Home," he clarified. He was breathing a bit easier, but he was still hidden in Sherlock's neck.

"Not long, I don't think . . . it's, I've struggled," Sherlock admitted. "I went first to find you and Mrs Hudson told me and I didn't know if it was true and he . . . I didn't know what to believe. Even if you'd just gone . . . I didn't know if you'd ever want to see me again."

That was the only thing that made John move. He pulled out of Sherlock's neck and looked up at his face, looked all over his beautiful face before meeting his eyes. "I've wanted to see you every day and . . . and maybe hit and scream at you a little bit, but I would have always wanted to see you." He couldn't believe what was happening. "I came here to . . . to tell you something . . ."

Sherlock looked down at John's face. He lifted his hand to touch it, to be sure. "What?" he asked. "What did you come to say?"

John licked his lips now and felt his stomach twist nervously. How long had it been since he felt nervous? All of his practising, his imagining and rehearsing had been to an imaginary stone. "I . . . I came to say that . . . to tell you that I . . . I loved you . . . I love you," he said. He glanced away for one second before meeting Sherlock's eyes again.

"I love you, too, John," Sherlock said, pulling him tightly to him again. "I couldn't lose you because of him and I couldn't accept I'd lost you because of me. I'm so sorry. . ."

The words made John feel weak all over again and he let himself collapse into Sherlock, holding him tightly. "I . . . I'm sorry too," he said. Sorry for the lost time and for not trusting Sherlock and for not being patient.

Sherlock held him for a few minutes longer, just breathing him in, remembering everything from their life before. Then he pulled his head back and looked John in the eye. "If you let me come back in your life, I will never leave you again," he said. "I will never not love you."

"Of course I want that," he gasped his relief. "I couldn't . . . you couldn't leave if you tried," he said. He gripped Sherlock tighter.

Sherlock kissed the top of John's head. They stood there pressed together for a while, neither one wanting to step away. Finally Sherlock said, "We are standing in front of the graves of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes."

"Where do we go from here?" John asked softly. He turned his head to look at the two stones.

"I don't want to go anywhere without you," Sherlock said.

"I don't want to go anywhere without you either. Are you staying at the flat?" John was still nervous about going back there, about seeing his friends after what he did.

"I want to," Sherlock said. "But I didn't know if I could." He turned John back to look at him. "Let's go, John. Let's go home. Nothing can be harder than the last two years -- we just . . . we can do anything as long as we stay together." He leaned in and kissed John's mouth softly.

John melted into Sherlock again as he kissed back and knew if Sherlock had suggested jumping off a roof again he would have done it. "Okay. Let's go home," he murmured.

They turned and walked away from their graves.


	6. Epilogue

They started their lives again -- they made their home at 221B Baker Street, they spoke with everyone they needed to speak with, and they brought their partnership back to life. John got some hours at a different surgery, Sherlock began getting cases again. John went back to seeing Ella, and Sherlock, well, Sherlock promised to never hide anything from John again.

And so far he'd kept that promise. Which is why they were now on their way to Sherlock's parents' house for a Holmes family reunion. Obviously, Sherlock's first instinct to his mother's invitation to say no, but this time he could see that others had paid consequences for his behaviour. So he'd agreed that he and John would come.

They were both a bit nervous -- it was the first time they'd face so many people at once. His mother had assured them no one would ask questions, but Sherlock wasn't worried about that. He was more anxious about seeing Mycroft.

When Sherlock and John had returned to Baker Street that night, once they'd calmed Mrs Hudson who was sure the two of them would be the death of her, they'd stayed together in the cold, dusty flat, sleeping in Sherlock's old bed. The next day they took the train up north and John ended the life of Christopher Sower. And then they'd gone together to Mycroft's.

"I see John's returned," Mycroft had said when he saw them come in.

Sherlock had gone to his room to get his bag and then rushed to leave.

"Thank you," John had said to Mycroft.

Mycroft had just nodded.

Sherlock looked over at John now, who was drowsily looking out the window of the car. John was still a better man than Sherlock was -- he'd forgiven Mycroft in a way that Sherlock still struggled to do. He reached over and grabbed John's hand.

The reunion was difficult because there were so many people there, but Sherlock and his mum made things easier for John. He had a private conversation with Mycroft, who admitted he'd seen them on the cemetery CCTV as they were leaving hand in hand. Mycroft didn't say anything about it to Sherlock, but John thanked Mycroft not only for his help but for bringing Sherlock home alive as well.

"He'll come round," John told Mycroft.

"I know," Mycroft said. At the end of the party, John saw the brothers speaking and felt that things would soon be okay between them all.

In the cab home John felt like he could finally relax. He leaned over on Sherlock and sighed softly, breathing him in.

"Thanks for going," Sherlock said. "And for . . . everything." He reached over and held John's hand. "I love you, you know," he said softly.

"I know," John said. "And I love you, too."

The cab pulled up outside of Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were home.


End file.
